Sergeant Jarren strolls over to his squad as they prepare the Chimera. He's looking a good deal better since the last time you saw him, writhing on an operating table back on the navy ship. He'd been convalescent after a flamer exploded next to him, leaving him screaming and awash in promethium. Now his blue uniform is neatly pressed and cleaned, and his skin doesn't even have burns or scarring; his muscled frame ripples strangely as he moves. He has a massive, two-handed chainsaw slung over his back, of a type you've sometimes seen the more fanatical priests carry in to battle. They tend to charge enemy tanks with it and get awarded medals of valor posthumously. He wasted his time requisitioning that?

He moves over to Wolfe, clapping him on the shoulder. "Doc, I never did thank you for pulling me out of that mess. Couldn't want for a better medic. You're the salt of the damned planet." he says, his distinctive voice ringing out over the bay. His Mordian accent is a curious blend of underhive dialect and the High Gothic he was taught from birth.

He looks out over his men, and nods. "Gentlemen! It's really good to see you're all still here. I was worried I'd be breaking in a bunch of new blood. In the interests of doing this operation with a lot less fire than previous, I'd like Corporal Doyle to crack open the spare auspex, so he can take a look and tell us all what the hell is going on with it, and why Command thinks our normal gear isn't going to cut the mustard."

He glances over, spotting the new tech-priest, and adds, "...After apologizing to it and supplying the necessary prayers and supplications, of course. Perhaps our new tech-priest would like to assist in this... routine inspection, of our issued gear?"

He's staring impassively at the tech-priest, at this new, strange addition to the well-oiled machine that is his squad of trusted allies, not sure what to make of him.